In the Sun
by FantasyFreak1110
Summary: A songfic based on Joseph Arthur's "In the Sun." Sherlock didn't realize how much of an impact his "death" would have on not only John, but on his own conscious. Could be slash if you wanted it to be, doesn't have to be.


Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock or the song lyrics. Please, Enjoy!

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**I picture you in the sun,**

**Wondering what went wrong.**

**And falling down on your knees,**

**Asking for sympathy.**

It's an odd feeling to attend one's own funeral. All of your friends and loved ones, even some you never thought cared, all of them, standing there dressed in black. Not a single one smiling, a few crying quietly. Watching as they bury an empty casket.

More people were there than I had expected. Of course there were Mycroft, my parents, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade. There was also Molly, Donovan, and quite a bit of my rather extended family. A few old clients were there as well, including Angelo. It felt odd having them all there in one place.

And John, dear John. He stood close to the front next to my brother. To any outside eyes, John's facial features seemed to betray nothing of what he was feeling. I knew better. I knew John. The way his jaw was set meant he was fighting back tears, as he did when I woke him from his nightmares about the war. His eyes were glassy and unfocused meaning he was deep in thought. His hands were also clenching and unclenching, like he wanted to hit something but couldn't.

I wish I could've told John my plan, saved him the pain, let him know that I hadn't died that day at St. Bart's. But I couldn't. As Mycroft said, he would have been insistent at him coming along. He would've put himself in unnecessary danger. I couldn't allow that.

Only Mycroft knew, as much as it pained me to admit it, I needed his help and resources. Having a brother who practically runs the British government can sometimes come in handy.

The sun was setting now, people were beginning to leave. Lestrade once came up to John and asked if he'd like to go to a pub with him, John said maybe some other time. The good doctor stayed put as the crowd got thinner and thinner. And John, strong, _proud_ John waited until even Mycroft had left to drop to his knees in front of my gravestone. Sobs shook his shoulders as the first stars blinked into the sky.

I wanted to go to him then, wrap my arms around him and tell him everything was going to be all right, that I was alive. But again, I couldn't.

**And being caught in between,**

**All you wish for and all you see,**

**And trying to find anything you can feel that you can believe in.**

**May God's love be with you, always.**

**May God's love be with you.**

John didn't deserve this, any of it. He'd been caught in a crossfire and now was paying a price that wasn't his to pay. If I lived to come back, which were admittedly slim chances, I'd make sure I'd do anything in my power to make it up to him. I knew then I'd be gone for a long time, years perhaps, John would get over it eventually. He'd move on, wouldn't he?

As I watched my friend mourn over me, I felt my chest tighten. I was still new to emotions such as these but I suspected it was guilt. I was guilty for leaving John even though I knew it was for the best, it was necessary. I took one last look at John whose tears had stopped and was now placing a white lily on my grave, and I had never felt more sorry in my life. And under cover of darkness, I left him there.

**I know I would apologize,**

**If I could see your eyes.**

'**Cause when you showed me myself, you know,**

**I became someone else.**

I'm in a hotel in Murmansk. I'd gotten a lead that some of Moriarty's associates were also involved in the Russian mafia. It's freezing here.

It's been six months since I've seen London, but only about nine hours since I've seen John. He's been making appearances in my dreams quite frequently as of late.

Dream-John is different from my John.

For one thing, Dream-John is always smiling, always. He never frowns or shows any other emotion besides joy, it's almost eerie. I know it's not my John because my John is a complicated tangle of emotions and _feelings_ that neither I nor anyone else can understand. Dream-John is paper, just an image in my head. He's not real, there's no _realness_ under that smile.

One other thing that's different about the John I see at night is that I can _see_ his nose, his hands, his shoulders, but I can never see his eyes. That's how I know I must be dreaming because no matter how hard I try, John's eyes are never visible to me.

I know that the day I see those eyes again is the day I tell John how sorry I am.

The time does not wear away the guilt, you see. It's still there, that tightness in my chest that reminds me daily that I left John. John, who made me a person, who made me _feel_ like a person. Before John came along, I truly believed that I was a sociopath, one who feels nothing towards other people. John made me become someone else entirely. But without John here, I can't be that person.

**But I was caught in between,**

**All you wish for and all you need.**

**I picture you fast asleep,**

**A nightmare comes, you can't keep awake.**

**May God's love be with you, always.**

**May God's love be with you.**

I know I can't come back yet. There are too many of Moriarty's men still at large. No matter how much I wish I could see Baker Street again, I have to finish what I started.

I wonder how John's doing. How he's getting along. Mycroft still has surveillance on the flat, but he won't tell me anything. I wonder if John's found a new roommate perhaps; although, Mycroft did assure him that he'd take care of the half the rent that was formerly mine. It's then I find myself thinking of John before we did cases together, what he was like. The John I remember from back then was stoic and indifferent with a psychosomatic limp and a therapist. I knew from when he first accepted my request that he accompany me to a crime scene that he missed the danger, it didn't haunt him like it would a normal person. I wonder, without the cases, if his limp has returned. What of the tremor in his hand, or the nightmares…

The nightmares.

Even after I "cured" him of his limp and trembling hand John still had the nightmares. Dreams of sand and sun and blood and pain and death. Dreams of those soldiers in the war that not even my doctor could save. Dreams of bullets tearing through flesh and muscle tissue and the sheer agony of it.

I used to help John through these nights. It started with just waiting for the dream to end and offering him some tea when he couldn't go back to sleep. Then it escalated into actually tip-toeing into his room and sitting on his bed and wrapping my arms around him. When he woke, I'd whisper to him that it was fine, that he wasn't in the war and that he was home at Baker Street. That he was safe. What would John do now that he was alone in the flat?

A fresh wave of guilt washed over me as my mind pictured the scene. I could see John tossing and turning, getting tangled in his bed sheets. His face misty with cold sweat and shed tears. He'd be stuck in that nightmare with no one to wake him up until the sound of his own screaming at nothing snaps him back to reality. Only to fall back asleep and succumb once more to war dreams in his head.

_I'm sorry, John, but I can't come back just yet._ And I hope that, in his dreams, he can hear me.

**'Cause if I find,**

**If I find my own way,**

**How much will I find?**

Three years have passed.

Three years since I "died."

Three years since I've seen him.

The very last of Moriarty's men has been killed as of late last night. I've still got the blood stains on my scarf. It's hard to believe the job is finally done, something I've spent three years of my life doing. It's finally over.

Now what am I to do? Go home? Is there still a home for me to go back to? All this time, I've pictured Baker Street as being a figurative "light at the end of the tunnel," a goal, something that I'm working towards; going home. But now, it's been so long. Is that even realistic anymore?

What if the flat's not as I left it? What if London itself isn't how I left it?

What if John's not as I left him?

Things could be different, three years is a long time, an eternity. What if I go back and find that everything has changed?

**If I find,**

**If I find my own way,**

**How much will I find?**

**You...**

**You...**

**I'll find you.**

**You...**

London smells alien, yet very much familiar. The rain mixing with the usual city smog, fused with coffee shops and crowds of people. It's odd, how can a place I've called home for years feel so strange? I try not to think about my confrontation with John. I tried to plan it out the night before, but there were too many variables. John never was someone I could easily read, that's what made him so interesting, yet infuriating. I didn't know if he'd be angry, or sad, or even happy to see me.

I sip the steaming cup of coffee in my hand, the bitter taste reminding me where I am. Before I can gather myself and take my first steps towards Baker Street, someone bumps my shoulder, very nearly knocking my drink to the ground.

"Sorry," the short man mutters. The first thing that registers is his walking stick. He has a limp, also a tremor in his left hand…

No.

I have approximately two seconds to completely take in John Watson. He looks older, so much older. He's pale and skinny. I can see his eyes now, they're not as deep as I remember. They're paler and sunken into his face.

This isn't my John. It can't be. My John is strong and proud. My John is happy, and clearly this man is not. Therefore, the man is not John.

"Sherlock?"

But I'm already gone, disappeared behind an alleyway before the man could get a good look at me. I stay completely still until I hear a barely-there dejected sigh, and a shuffling as he walks away. The _guilt_ grips me now, harder than ever before.

I did this. I did this to John.

That thought circles around my mind, tighter and tighter, until I can't breathe. In that two seconds, I saw what three years had done. I saw the man I had left and what he had become in my absence.

In that dark, wet alley, the great Sherlock Holmes dropped his head in his hands.

In that dark, wet alley, I cried.

**I don't know anymore,**

**What it's for.**

**I'm not even sure,**

**If there is anyone who is in the sun.**

**Will you help me to understand?**

I can't face him. Not now. Not after seeing the pain I had caused. It scared me. John was different. John wasn't supposed to be different. That wasn't in the plan.

What was I doing? Thinking that everything could go back to the way it was? I cursed that small human part of my brain for failing me; I cursed that part that gave me hope even though I should have known it was unlikely. I should have known it would be impossible.

That miscalculation has turned me into a coward; hiding out in a dingy hotel room that's really only four blocks from my flat.

_John's_ flat.

I pass the time by watching people as they pass on the pavement below. It really is rather boring, but what else is there to do? I exercise my powers of deduction on these civilians. It's the usual markup: recently divorced, cheating on her husband, alcoholic, anger issues, the list goes on.

Just normal, everyday lives; normal, everyday problems.

John walks by every so often. I can see his limp and the way his head is dropped. A defeated soldier.

I know that eventually, I have to reveal myself to him. I can't stay dead forever, and he has a right to know. Maybe John will be forgiving, maybe I deserve every ounce of hatred he will soon have for me.

Maybe he'll understand.

**'Cause I've been caught in between,**

**All I wish for and all I need.**

**Maybe you're not even sure what it's for**

**Any more than me.**

**May God's love be with you,**

**Always...**

**May God's love be with you.**

Another day goes by, wasted. Another day John suffers alone. He would tell me this amount of self-loathing is unhealthy, but I can't seem to find it in me to end it. End this waiting.

Three years ago, I said whatever I felt like to whomever I felt like. Three years ago, I was so sure of myself, doing what had to be done and damn the consequences. Now, even my brain doesn't seem as bold. I'm constantly questioning myself, constantly pointing out my own shortcomings, and constantly counting the hours John could have known I was alive.

Now, it seems clear that John isn't the only one who has changed.

**'Cause if I find,**

**If I find my own way,**

**How much will I find?**

It must be done. I can't wait any longer. I prepare myself for whatever I find. Whoever I find.

John is clearly severely depressed, he's probably seeing his therapist again. I don't know what he'll be like now. My only comparison is how he was in the first few days after we met. He was recluse, rather protective of himself. He snapped at people, like a dog who had been kicked one too many times.

I can only imagine that it is worse now.

I tie my scarf, button my coat, and check out of the hotel at 2:18 p.m.

**If I find,**

**If I find my own way,**

**How much will I find?**

**You...**

**You...**

I call a taxi and tell the driver, "221b Baker Street."

We're there within five minutes, each spanning an eternity. I dig the old, rusted key from my pocket, turning it over in my hand. John's sad, tired eyes look up at me with each turn of the metal.

**I'll find you.**

**You...**

I open the door quietly and am immediately struck by how little this floor has changed. The same staircase, the same ghastly wallpaper. I slowly climb the stairs, one after the other, each step more familiar than the last.

Then I reach the flat.

**I'll find you.**

**You...**

It's clean, unnaturally so. How I imagined it would be like if John had ever actually gotten me to clean something. The books are neatly propped on the shelf, the carpet is vacuumed, and the coffee table is cleared.

The Union Jack cushion is sat neatly on John's armchair, and I'm surprised to see my chair is still where I had left it. My old violin is propped up on the seat.

I'm even more surprised to see the skull grinning at me from the mantle.

Then, I see the still steaming cup of tea next to the skull. And I hear the familiar shuffling about in the kitchen. John probably wants to know who has broken into his flat.

I brace myself for whatever's coming as he emerges from the tiny kitchen, my old robe hanging limply from his form.

**I'll find you.**

**You...**

"John."

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Thanks for reading! I'm thinking about doing a companion piece for this in John's perspective using a different song, but that all depends on the comments I get! So please, tell me what you think.


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